


Stitches

by Vagabond



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Touch-Starved, wound care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 06:44:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6944035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagabond/pseuds/Vagabond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A killer gets away and John is left injured but Harold is there, patient and unwavering, to clean him up and put him back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stitches

**Author's Note:**

> For [talking2thesky](http://talking2thesky.tumblr.com/) on tumblr who asked: poi fic prompt: rinch + touch-starved john
> 
> It took me three tries to finally get one written that I liked.

“Mr. Reese?” 

Harold’s concerned tone brought him back to full consciousness. Everything hurt. His left side burned. John flexed his jaw and the skin on his face pulled uncomfortably. When he licked his lips he tasted tangy copper and couldn’t help the groan that escaped him as he slowly pushed up into a sitting position. 

He did a quick mental inventory of his body. His toes wiggled, sensation drifted throughout his body, and when he moved a bit too quickly to rise up to his feet he realized he’d taken a hard hit to the side because the pain burned through him and he tried to internalize his desire to yelp. 

“John!” Harold’s voice barked into the comm, “if you don’t answer me I’m going to have to come find you.” 

“Fine, Finch, I’m fine,” John bit out as he utilized a sturdy side table to get up on his feet. His memory of the events that led up to whatever landed him on the floor was spotty and his head swam uncomfortably. Touching his face, then his temple, his fingers came away covered in blood and he sighed. 

“Detective Fusco is en route to pick you up,” Harold informed him and John could hear the repressed worry in his tone, “someone reported the altercation to the police, so he is running interference.” 

John slumped onto the couch at that point and tilted his head to look at the door, slightly ajar. He realized, just before he blacked out again, that he let a killer get away. 

***

“You should really get him to a doctor,” Lionel’s voice said from somewhere above him, distant and otherworldly, to the point John could barely register the words. His attempt to track the conversation led him through mental sludge, as if he’d forgotten how to process language all together. 

“I will make that determination; for now I will clean him up,” Harold’s voice replied from somewhere in the ether. John floated along in the darkness, guided by the sounds, and reached out for them before everything went silent again. 

***

The next time he woke up, his head remained clear, though the point of impact still throbbed. He remembered it now, the moment his attacker bested him by throwing him into the mantle of the fireplace. Really, he’d lucked out, only catching the edge which left him with a gash and a crazy headache. A gash that stung when the scent of alcohol filled his nose and he realized someone was cleaning him up. 

“Finch?” He mumbled, a split lip making it difficult to talk. 

“John,” Harold replied, relieved. 

John opened his eyes and regretted it, closing them for a minute before trying again. In the short span of time he heard Harold click off the nearby lamp, leaving only the midday light coming through the windows. They were in one of the safe houses, John sprawled out on a plush leather couch he was sure to get blood on. He tried to sit up, but Harold rested a firm hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down onto the couch.

“There’s quite a gash at your temple. I should get it cleaned up and potentially stitched up, before you entertain any ideas about moving,” he warned.

“You going to stitch me up yourself, Harold?” John asked, “didn’t know you knew field medicine.”

“The theory behind stitching up human contusions is the same as stitching clothing, Mr. Reese, and I have taken a few first aid classes,” Harold replied indignantly. “When we began getting into this business, and I realized you’d probably end up hurt more often than not-”

“I don’t get hurt that often,” he interrupted, but Harold continued despite it.

“I thought it best I learn the basics in case an event such as this came up and required my attention. Be grateful that I’m actually quite good at it.”

John gazed at him skeptically and noticed worry lines across Harold’s forehead, his lips turned down into a concerned frown.

“This would be simpler if you were less inclined to stare at me,” Harold pointed out as he rummaged around in the first aid kit next to his leg. John only then realized that Harold had manoeuvred himself to the floor and sat with his legs curled under him uncomfortably.

“Should you be on the floor?” John asked.

“The only thing you need to be concerned about, Mr. Reese, is keeping still,” Harold replied and produced another, larger packet that no doubt contained another alcohol wipe. “I don’t have local anaesthetic here, but I imagine you’ll get through.”

He ripped open the package, pulled out the wipe, and pressed it to John’s forehead. He allowed the sting of it to wash over him, and instead tried to focus on Harold’s other hand which rested against the uninjured side of his face to presumably keep him still. John squinted and tried to watch Harold’s face, but eventually closed his eyes and focused on the sensation instead.

Sounding satisfied with the work he’d done, indicated by a soft “hmm,” that John recognized from listening to him code, Harold stroked his thumb over his cheek gently. John leaned into it and heard Harold’s soft intake of breath in response.

“I’m afraid this next part is going to be entirely unenjoyable for both of us,” Harold pointed out regretfully. For a moment, the warm touch John craved disappeared and he was left with the dull throb in his temple and the other aches and pains coming out of the woodwork the longer he remained conscious.

When the needle first pierced his skin, the only warning he got was the return of Harold’s gentle hand against the side of his face, and it was brief. He inhaled sharply, then exhaled, and remembered all of the times he’d experienced much worse in much less ideal situations. A time in Japan when a doctor ‘tsk’ed’ at him anytime he winced after he had a run-in with an Army deserter he’d been asked to track down after the runaway military man had put American secrets up for auction, for example. He learned quickly to conceal his pain, and went to a different place in his mind, one far away from the needle weaving thread in and out of his wound.

“John?” Harold asked, and he realized then that he truly had drifted. The pressure from the needle was gone, and the weight of a bandage rested against the once open wound. He opened his eyes and peered up at Harold who offered a pained smile.

“I’m covered in blood,” John said lamely, not sure how to respond to the deep concern in Harold’s eyes. “Can I sit up now?”

“Oh, certainly, but please, be careful Mr. Re-”

John didn’t give him a chance to finish his request as he pushed himself up and grimaced with the pain in his side. Still, he managed to work himself into an upright position and huffed in pain as he willed the light-headedness to cease. The seat beside him on the couch sank down and he opened his eyes to see Harold there. Before John could do anything, Harold had yanked up his shirt to reveal his side. He tried to look past Harold’s arm blocking the way and saw the edges of a dark bruise forming.

“Do you think anything is broken?” Harold asked as he gently poked the edges and John grimaced.

“No. I think it is just bruised. I’m breathing fine, no pain. Only hurts when I try to use the muscles in that area.”

“Hmm,” Harold continued to brush his fingers along the mark, “it looks like a boot.”

He pressed down to test it and John flinched away.

“It also hurts when people _poke it_ ,” he hissed and scowled when a brief look of amusement passed over Harold’s face. “Nice to know you’re enjoying this.”

“My mind is still reeling, John. I have to enjoy small pleasures when they present themselves. I thought I had lost you,” Harold hesitated, before he carefully pulled John’s undershirt back over his bruised side.

“I’ve seen worse,” John pointed out, thinking about a gunshot, and being helped down the stairs by Harold’s smaller frame as he bled out and regretted putting his friend in harm’s way.

Harold did not respond. Instead, he stood and began to gather up the medical supplies, as well as the garbage he had laying around.

“Perhaps you should get cleaned up, Mr. Reese,” he pointed out, voice now distant when before it brimmed with uncertainty and emotion.

“Finch,” John started, but the other man limped out of the room before he could get a word in.

He stared in the direction Harold had disappeared and when he didn’t return, gave up and tried to stand on his own. Pain sparked along his side and he could feel it in his teeth, but he pushed through it and stumbled his way to the bathroom. He leaned heavily on the sink and stared into the mirror, only then realizing why Harold had looked so concerned. Aside from the bandaged gash, blood decorated the side of his face. It appeared to have dripped from the wound down along his cheek, and even to his neck. For what would end up being a relatively superficial wound, it sure had bled.

He also had bruising around the edge of his eye from the trauma, and his face had swelled up. What he really needed was a vicodin and a bag of frozen peas, he decided, but first he wanted to attend to the blood. Looking around the room he located a small linen cabinet and pulled a wash cloth from it. With it in hand he turned on a mix of warm and cold water in the sink and when it reached a good temperature, plugged it so it would fill with the lukewarm water.

However, when he finally dipped the cloth in and tried to wipe at his face, he experienced an uncomfortable dizziness that sent his vision swimming. John dropped the cloth into the water, some splashing to the floor as he manoeuvred over to the closed toilet seat and took a deep breath in and then let it out slowly.

“Would you like assistance?” Harold asked quietly from the doorway. John looked up at him and nodded mutely.

Harold’s sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he’d ditched whatever jacket and vest he had probably been wearing earlier in the day. To see him this stripped down was so foreign to John, who was used to the three pieced suits. Being able to see the tendons in Harold’s arms working away as he wrung out the cloth was nearly scandalous.

Again, Harold rested one hand comfortingly against the side of John’s head and began to wipe away the blood on his face with the other, armed with the wash cloth. John closed his eyes and breathed, in for three and out for three while Harold worked. He could smell soap on Harold’s skin, and the warmth from his palm on John’s uninjured cheek was a nice contrast to what he had experienced earlier during the fight.

“Is someone working on tracking the guy down?” John asked suddenly, realizing he’d been so caught up in his injuries he’d forgotten about the number.

“It has been taken care of,” Harold replied easily as he stepped away and took his warm hands with him. He proceeded to rinse out the washcloth in the sink, the water turning a rusty maroon as he drained the sink and then refilled it. Rinse and repeat, he continued to clean John up, and John gave into the attention, lost in the rhythm of Harold’s gentle touches.

Again, Harold stepped away, and this time he drained the sink without refilling it and left the cloth sitting there, blood stained fabric resting against white porcelain. He moved to the linen cabinet, John tracked him, and returned with a hand towel. John reached up to take it, but Harold moved it out of his reach and wiped along the side of John’s face himself. When his hand rested against the side of John’s face once more, he couldn’t help but turn into it, and would later blame the exhaustion for the way he pressed into the palm of Harold’s hand.

The towel fell to the floor unceremoniously as thoughtful fingers carded through John’s hair and then eventually rested against the back of his neck, firm and controlling. Reassuring.

“I’m afraid,” Harold began, hesitated, and then continued, “I was quite worried about you. I nearly went to retrieve you myself, but detective Fusco was closer. It made more sense to let him take care of it. I rushed to meet you here, at the safe house, and when I saw you limp and bloody I thought the worst.”

John allowed Harold to pause and said nothing. Instead, he focused on the way Harold stroked the fine hairs on the back of his neck possessively, and John gently leaned his head forward so his cheek ended up nestled against Harold’s hip.

“I understand that the end game for us is most certainly death, yet whenever I see you dance with the possibility of it, I panic. You see, I believe we’ve come a bit further than I ever imagined we would, Mr. Reese, and I’m not entirely sure what we’re to do about it.”

“Well for one, you can keep touching me,” John pointed out and smiled when Harold’s thumb ghosted along his hairline.

“I am inclined to do a lot more than touch you,” Harold replied, voice firm and sure like he was telling John the sky was blue. The admission was apparently that simple.

John suppressed a shiver.

“But,” Harold began and John knew he was going to hate what came next, “you’re injured, and it would do neither of us any good at this point. What I would like to do is get you into something that isn’t covered in blood.”

Nodding, John finally sat back and Harold withdrew his hands and stepped back. When John looked at him, he seemed to be weighing his options, so John waited patiently.

“Come,” Harold insisted and offered John his hand, which he took and stood. The hand moved from John’s to his elbow and led him gently toward the back of the safe house and into the bedroom. Guiding him to the bed, Harold motioned for him to sit and then disappeared into the walk-in closet. When he reappeared he held in his hands what appeared to be a soft button down pajama shirt and a set of matching pants.

“I usually don’t wear pants to bed Harold,” John pointed out.

Harold considered him for a moment and set the shirt down on the bed, retreating back to the closet to discard the pants. He returned to John.

“Arms up over your head, please,” he requested and John complied with a barely contained groan of pain as the muscles along his side stretched. Harold, taking care around the point of impact, pulled the shirt up and over his head, then off his arms and tossed it aside. His eyes roamed over the long stretch of bruising and he frowned once more, a look crossing his face that John wasn’t sure he recognized. Something about it left him warm and satisfied.

“That will certainly take some time to heal. I’ll be sure to pick up some ice packs while you rest. Perhaps I’ll consult with a doctor to see if there’s anything else we can do to ease your discomfort.”

Harold fetched the shirt and draped it around John’s back. Slowly, John eased his arms into the sleeves and Harold’s fingers worked comfortably to get the shirt John’s arms and resting at his shoulders.

“Stand up,” he requested, and John complied. Harold, with a look of concentration and endless care, buttoned the shirt up for him and then ran his hands over John’s chest. He was careful to avoid the tender area around his ribs and stepped back to take him in.

“Do you keep pajamas in my size at all of your safe houses, Finch?” John asked with a half smile as Harold returned his comment with a measured look.

“I like to be prepared, Mr. Reese,” he replied. “Now make yourself comfortable please, I am going to fetch you some pain reliever.”

He retreated from the room, leaving John to the space and his thoughts. The ghost of Harold’s fingers against his skin remained and he swore his very cells tingled with excitement when he realized the new avenues they could explore. Working his belt open, he shed his bloodied trousers and kicked them away before he turned to the bed and pulled the blankets down. With care, he lowered himself onto the high thread count sheets and sunk into the mattress with a sigh.

Harold returned to the room moments later with a glass of water and three round red pills, which he offered to John. John accepted, down the pills with a swig of water, and then set the glass aside on the nightstand. For a moment, Harold stood there and watched as John got comfortable. Once he was situated, John patted the bed.

“There are things I need to attend to, you know,” Harold pointed out when he noticed the invitation.

“Please,” John said quietly, suddenly very tired. It seemed to be enough, because Harold succumbed to his request and toed off his shoes. He sat up on the bed, snagging a pillow that John wasn’t using to stuff it behind him to support his back as he leaned against the headboard.

John shifted until his cheek lay pressed up against Harold’s thigh, and Harold’s hand soon resumed its place in his hair. Curious fingers traced along John’s scalp and followed curves of hair that refused to stay in place. John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, eyes sliding shut as he gave in to Harold’s gentle touches. One of Harold’s fingers traced the shell of his ear thoughtfully, and John turned his head and shifted his body to ease the strain on his side and nuzzle his face against Harold’s leg.

“Easy, John,” Harold chided gently as his fingers brushed over the bandage on John’s temple.

He decided he could get used to this. The warmth, the proximity to Harold, the gentle touches a stark contrast to the violence he dealt with in a typical day, all of it was intensely pleasant. He listened to Harold breathing, and decided the only thing really missing was the telltale sound of fingers brushing across a keyboard which had provided John comfort for months while he’d remain holed up in the Library between numbers, trying to catch a bit of shut eye. 

John did not want the moment to end, but sleep pulled at him, beckoned him to rest, and before he could say a word he allowed the comforting darkness to swallow him, accompanied by the pressure of familiar fingers brushing against his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Have a prompt? Drop it in my tumblr [askbox now!](https://waffleironbiddingwar.tumblr.com/ask)


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